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12 The Inquisitor The Inquisitor is pleased— My lover is a wooden doll floating, passing Face down, irretrievable— “Your fault,” She says, “all your fault.” My lover is a wooden doll floating, passing Like the slow eclipse of a bloodied Moon— “Your fault,” She says, “all your fault.” My always failing self, again failing Like the slow eclipse of a bloodied Moon— Maples stripped of their yellow & red My always failing self, again failing To let the real be real. Maples stripped of their yellow & red Leaves like lanterns light the path— To let the real be real. If I agree, who am I? Who’s She? Leaves like lanterns light the path— The Inquisitor is pleased— If I agree, who am I? Who’s She? Face down, irretrievable— ...

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